


Daughter of Dragons

by lonevvanderer



Series: Night Gathers [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A major character death has occurred, Childbirth, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys Targaryen Needs A Hug, Daenerys is really having a moment here, F/M, POV Daenerys Targaryen, Protective Arya Stark, Suicidal Thoughts, referenced child loss, season 8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26604052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonevvanderer/pseuds/lonevvanderer
Summary: ~Daenerys gives birth.[Set post-'Night Gathers' - reading of that fic is highly recommended, if not essential]
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Night Gathers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915621
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54





	Daughter of Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: References to child loss and suicidal thoughts.

Pain. That’s all Dany could feel as she screamed.

Daenerys had lain on the large poster bed, soaked in sweat, for what felt like a hundred years. Numerous men and women surrounded her, offering kind words, soft hands, comfort she did not want - but so desperately needed. She hadn’t been awake last time, for Rhaego. She hadn’t known how long the pain would truly last. Her head was on fire, burning hotter and more ferocious than any Dragonfire she had ever unleashed. Drogo’s pyre hadn’t felt like this. Vaes Dothrak hadn’t felt like this. 

Arya knelt at her side, wiping her pale hair from her face. The younger woman smiled, and through the blinding pain, Daenerys sobbed, for she was so cruelly reminded of Jon. _He should be here_ , she thought, _It should be him cradling my head._ Arya knew, of course. She realised who she was and who she replaced. Her eyes, too, were lost in solitary sadness.

The pain subsided, though the ache of her body remained and pulled tighter and tighter as she attempted to rest back into the nest of pillows behind her. Waylon offered more comforting words, but Dany did not listen. She heard only her heart, her screams, and the distant pull of the Night Lands. She didn’t want to die, but the thought of her mother, in this same bed on Dragonstone, in this same pain, all those years ago, she simply could not put aside. When her mother passed, was it in pain? Did she know? Did she care? Perhaps she was content, Daenerys wondered, to leave the world that had handed her such a cruel fate. Daenerys pondered such an idea as well - for she wished for her better world, but what was that all worth, if after Jon, this child was lost to her as well?

“Stop it!” Arya urged. “I can see what you’re thinking!”

Arya’s harsh tone caused Dany to flinch, her eyes peeling from the ceiling and straight into Arya’s narrowed eyes.

“I… I can’t…” Daenerys said, exhausted. 

“Shut up, you can!” Arya exclaimed with desperate enthusiasm. “You’re the Mother of Dragons, Stormborn! You’re every title under the fucking sun! _You can do this_. Be a mother to one more!”

Mother. She was always a mother. To freemen, to dragons. Oh, to have a child of her own - no wings, no scales, no claws. Her own flesh and blood. Daenerys would say she would trade anything, but such a mistake had cost her her beloved Rhaego. Jon’s child, she must leave to the Gods, she realised. They would decide if the Mother of Dragons would be a mother to House Targaryen. The pain cut through her again, worse this time, and the indomitable feeling that the time to push was near overwhelmed her. Such a feeling was not helped by the look on poor Waylon’s face, who hurriedly pushed at the Septa to his side for her to grab more towels.

“Your Grace, it’s time,” Waylon said.

Time? Time for what? To see her child? To lose her child? To die? Daenerys’ tired mind could no longer bear it, and her body took over from there. It pushed, and pushed, and her mouth ripped open in scream after scream. Arya held her hand tightly, and when Daenerys squeezed shut her eyes, she pretended the calloused hands were Jon. Another scream, so loud that the dragons perched nearby roared in chorus. Something tore from her then, a weird sensation she could not quite remember ever feeling, but she knew what it was. At the end of the bed, the people clustered, hiding what they held from view and speaking so hushed that Daenerys could not hear them over the sound of her ragged and laboured breathing.

It was quiet. Daenerys didn’t like the quiet. The silence descended on the room, oppressive like, unbearable. Even Arya shook as she held their joined hands between her own. Daenerys leaned forward, desperate, the grief primed to wash over her the instant the man would deliver the news. She was a fool to believe the fates would ever be so kind. Instead, a cry rang out through the room, sharp and needy, and in that instant, Daenerys sobbed at the music of it. Arya smiled, Waylon smiled, the Septas clapped lightly and jumped as the little thing in Waylon’s arms wriggled and wailed. 

“Your Grace, a lovely daughter!” Waylon exclaimed excitedly.

Daenerys sobbed harder, the power of them hurting her chest as she wearily held her arms out to reach for her baby girl.

“Please… please hand her to me,” Daenerys whispered through her tears.

Oh, she was so little. And light. Her skin was pink and pale, near the same tone of the blood-stained white towel she was wrapped in delicately. She was perfect, Daenerys decided. Her little eyes opened slowly, unable to focus on the machinations of the room around her, or the brown-haired woman sobbing just a metre away. She knew she’d remember this moment for the rest of her life, however long it may be. She would remember her eyes. Big, and violet, and bold. Daenerys just knew they would be sharper than even the wisest Maester. Dramatic to say, perhaps, for an infant, but she did not care. Dany knew that the little girl nestled sweetly in her arms better than anything. She knew she would be strong and brave and kind. She, with eyes as bright indigo as her mother, would be _just_ like her father.

Daenerys wished for nothing more than to have Jon at her side, smiling at her side, loving their daughter at her side. She could imagine his smile, pinching at his sunken eyes, nothing but joy on his face as he looked down at the beauty they had created. But even the vague memory of Jon’s warmth, memories that she willed so desperately to come forth from her tired mind, could not overthrow the damp chill of the room, or the breeze slowly lifting the sweat from her skin. Jon was not here.

_This girl, my girl, our girl_ , Daenerys thought, _would be my warmth_.

“Oh, this is so exciting, my Queen! Do you have a name for our beautiful princess?!” One of the younger Septas giggled.

A name? So many months and Daenerys hadn’t even pondered a name. Well, that was a lie, she had - every Targaryen name under the sun sprang to mind, and there was a lot to choose from. Visenya. Rhaenys. Alysanne. Baela. All wonderful names. Strong names. _Perhaps I should name her for my mother_ , Daenerys realised, _for the mother I never knew_. But something about it just felt… off. Her and this girl would be the start of a restored House Targaryen. It had to be new, she realised. It had to be kinder. Arya sat patiently to her side, her lovely eyes transfixed on the small blob in her arms. Both their cries had died down, leaving only a quiet peace. Daenerys looked back down to her daughter, stroking her finger delicately around her lovely face. She thought, and thought, and tried her best to think of something, but nothing stuck.

_If only she were a boy_ , she pondered, _then I could have named him Jon._

Jon was a good name, a strong name. Thousands had had it before him and thousands would have it after. A name given to him by his adoptive father, for Lyanna had named him Aegon.

Daenerys' head shot up, near-frightening the women at her side. She looked back down again, her eyes wide, as she ignored the concerned stares of the Septas and Arya. Daenerys looked at the little girl a little longer, at her long face and wriggling frame. She had never known her own mother, and neither had Jon. And her baby would not know Jon in turn. Even if her mind was torn, just one look at her little princess confirmed it in her heart.

“I want to name her Lyanna,” Daenerys called out firmly, her eyes glued to the baby in her arms. Arya beamed at her as the name spilt for her mouth.

Waylon stopped what he was cleaning and smiled. “Then Princess Lyanna it is.”

“Of Dragonstone,” Daenerys replied.

“Of Dragonstone,” Waylon echoed.

She would have no more children after her. She would take no more husbands. This little girl, this little blob, would succeed her. She would rule them fairly. She would be good, and kind, and just. She would be whatever she wanted to be, and she would have the childhood Daenerys herself had never known. She would never have it stolen from her.

Daenerys held her a little tighter then, cradling her small head between her chin and bare chest. She was alive. They both were. Their hearts beat in their chests, and those same hearts burst with a love Daenerys believed long dead - rotting and decrepit on the grassy shores of the Dothraki Sea. A sister for Rhaego, for Viserion. For the dragons that roamed and roared above them. Her happiness - though still missing that one crucial piece - returned to her at that moment, and breathed life into her weary soul.

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing but love for Lyanna, the Princess of Dragonstone. 
> 
> More one-shots to come (doing them in-universe chronological order, for the most part): Daenerys will be slightly less sad from here on.


End file.
